We went down to the river and paddled, like we have so many times before. The cool of autumn finally falling, the last leaves dropping, a gusty breeze seeming to swirl in circles and never blow very long from any one direction.

We launched the canoe about 1 p.m. with not another soul in sight. Soon a pair of eagles crossed the river a couple times in front of us and disappeared over the bluff. There was little other visible life along the length of our route.

The water was very low and passages and channels that were normally navigable now required special attention. Paddles bumped sand and gravel on the bottom. The water was also incredibly clear, running at what would be considered its “base flow.” Rather than receiving lots of water from lakes and bogs in the headwaters, the river was mostly being fed by springs. It was less runoff and more groundwater.

Combined with the frequent shallows, it meant we could see pale green maple leaves resting on the bottom, and all sorts of other submarine scenery.

Our first stop was at a favorite waterfall, where we beached the canoe on a gravel beach and followed the spring-fed creek to the foot of the falls. Fed by some spring far above, the water spills down two limestone rock faces, singing and splashing.

When the wind would pick up we would lean forward and bow our heads and dig into the water with our paddles, work to hold a straight line and push forward to quieter waters. When the sun started to slip over the western bluff, and the shadows lengthened across the river, we also tried to stay in the warm light as long as we could.

Our second stop is a campsite near another waterfall, where we make a fire and warm our hands and feet and listen to the creek music. The last light hits the tops of white pines high above, and then they go from gold to muted green as we lose the sun.

We were nearly to the landing where our car awaited when a small boat emerged from a side channel and passed us. We met its owner at the landing, where he said he’d been scouting for ducks, hoping to hunt. He told us that this long warm fall has been tough for waterfowl hunters, as their quarry has been in no rush to migrate south, and the duck are happy to hang out farther north for now.

Twenty years ago this day, she and I were wedded on the banks of the St. Croix, some twenty miles or so downstream. It was colder but also blustery that day. The river has been woven through our marriage ever since. Today, it again brought us together and to the natural world which sustains our shared lives.